Cookies, Chemistry, Chaos
by Aramisol
Summary: John surveyed the battlefield of classroom 221B. The class had a reputation of often being girls-only and he had high hopes for himself. The only other bloke there was the Sherlock Holmes - what the hell is he doing in a cooking course? Concocting edible explosives? - sitting in a quiet corner. Oh yes, the odds were in his favor. AU school fic. New Chapter.
1. How to Cook an Egg

**1. How to Cook an Egg**

John surveyed the battlefield of classroom 221B. The class had a reputation of often being girls-only and he had high hopes for himself. The only other bloke there was _the _Sherlock Holmes (what the hell is _he _doing in a cooking course? Concocting edible explosives?) sitting in a quiet corner. Oh yes, the odds were in his favor.

On the other hand, despite girls being the most lovely and fearsome creatures known to man, one of your kind was easier to deal with.

And so John sat next to the infamous Nerd of Ice.

"Er… hi." He smiled.

"…" Sherlock stared off into space. After a minute of awkward silence, he gave up and turned to the girl next to him.

"Hello. Anthea, right?"

"Yeah." She didn't even bother looking up from her Blackberry.

"John Watson. Nice to meet you."

"Good for you."

He gave up immediately.

"Welcome, young ladies and gents, to Baking class! I'm Mrs. Hudson and I will be your cooking teacher for this semester."

She clapped her hands together. She might as well have said, 'Welcome to hell!'

"Today marks the first time I said gents with an 's' for a cooking class! Goodness gracious, I don't know what came over you two young men. We'll try not to give them such a hard time, won't we, ladies?"

The girls giggled ruthlessly. John sunk slightly into his chair, going pink. It was more than a fifteen year-old could bear.

"We shall start with something easy." Mrs. Hudson said after checking attendance, "Eggs! Who here can demonstrate how to boil and fry one? Don't be shy now."

Only he, Sherlock, and a few other girls raised their hands.

"Surprise, Surprise! Looks like we could learn from our gentlemen. Why don't you two show us how it's done? Everyone please come up to the front. It's Sherlock, am I right? Sherlock, would you boil one egg? John could fry another. Easy enough, boys? Try not to start World War Three."

Oh great. First day of class and she's picking on them. John shuffled to the front, glowering angrily at his toes.

Sherlock had his hands behind his back, smiling like a professor observing his students bungling clumsily with chemicals.

"You first, John Watson."

John shot him a glare. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as sixteen pairs of pretty eyes turned on him. He turned the stove on and heated the frying pan.

"Well you first, er… turn on the frying pan… then add oil, or butter, or margarine to make the bottom slicker… Then when it's heated you crack open the egg into it and wait for it to turn white…"

He slid the fried egg onto a plate.

"That's pretty much it."

The class clapped politely.

"Well done! Now we know we won't go hungry with Mr. Watson!" Mrs. Hudson looked pleased, "Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock heated faucet water in a pot, with a thermometer.

"I took the liberty of looking up the exact formula for boiling eggs, which I know _none_ of you would think to do. The egg I put in weighs 58 grams with a starting temperature of four degrees. Assuming typical albumen density and that we are on sea level, it will take four and a half minutes to cook."

When it reached boiling point, he dropped an egg into it. Then he held another egg in front of them, as if it were criminal evidence for the court to see.

"A chicken egg is a homogenous object composed of protein. Heating the egg causes the non-covalent bonds between the amino-acid to break, thus denaturing the protein. Proteins gain energy from the heat to form stronger covalent bonds, which pushes out water molecules. Thus, heat turns liquid into solid. The same effect can be achieved by mixing vodka, vinegar, and egg white."

(All the class heard was, 'Blah Blah Blah VODKA'._)_

Sherlock checked his watch, then put out the stove and took out the egg. He placed it gingerly next to John's fried egg.

"There." He smiled, "As perfect as the number six."

Silence.

A girl clapped, shaking her head slowly.

John joined in the applause, unaware it was meant to be sarcastic, "That was amazing! Who the hell are you?"

Sherlock blinked. Paradigm shifts often paralyzed him for a few moments.

"I'm a chemist." He replied quietly, "Allow me to write the formula for it."

"No thank you, Sherlock, dear. That would be unnecessary." Mrs. Hudson held his hand back before he could reach for a marker. "Are you sure you're in the correct class? You might want to transfer to Organic Chemistry."

"Done. Got an A during first year. They've run out of science classes for me. Regretfully, this is as close to an Applied Chemistry class I could get."

"Well, I believe this semester will be rather interesting with Sherlock's chemical explanations! Now that we've had a demonstration from our gentlemen, please try it with a partner. No need to produce formulas, ladies! Oh, and gents."

The class giggled, muttering under their breaths as they turned their backs to Sherlock and John and paired themselves off.

"I... er… guess we're stuck together?" John smiled, holding out his hand in truce, "John Watson. It's nice to meet you."

He took his hand and smiled, "Sherlock Holmes. Care for a date?"

* * *

A/N: Perfect numbers are the sum of their divisors. Example:

1 + 2 + 3 = 6

1 + 2 + 4 + 7 + 14 = 28

Any ideas for future chapters? I'm taking suggestions.


	2. How to be Comfortable with Your

**2. How to be Comfortable with your Sexuality**

The noise level of their corner of the room had fallen to zero. So had John's social life.

"W-what?"

"You heard me perfectly well."

"Har har har! Sherlock, you kidder! Good joke!"

"What joke?"

His laughter died down. On the other hand, the two girls next to them giggled so hard they had to lean on each other for support.

"It is a joke, isn't it?"

"You don't want to go on a date with me, John?"

One girl fell forward and banged her fist on the counter. John added them to his list of 'Don't Even Try'.

"Listen, Sherlock. A date is when two people who _like_ each other go out and have fun."

"Oh, you don't like me? … Understandable."

"Well, I like you, but as a friend! Hell, we just met!"

"You _do_ like me. So what's the problem?"

Things were going out of hand too fast. He leaned forward and whispered through gritted teeth. "Sherlock, we're too old for play dates."

"Oh!" Sherlock's eyes widened in understanding, "I meant a study date. Of course."

"… a study date." Of course _Sherlock Holmes_ would ask for a study date. No other kind of 'date' existed in his dictionary, except for the fruit. "You're asking me out on a study date."

"Isn't that what people do?" His eyebrows crinkled together, "Study together?"

"Yes, but - Look. Let's just talk about this after class, alright?"

Sherlock's expression eased and, if you squinted, you could almost see a smile.

"Certainly, focus is crucial." Sherlock filled a mug half-full with water and cracked an egg into it. Then he placed it inside a microwave for forty seconds. "May I have your number?"

Despite the girls still giggling uncontrollably behind them, John threw his hands up in the air and gave his number.

"Thank you." Sherlock seemed pleased, "A snowball in hell has better chances than you, you know."

"Chances of what?"

"Of dating a girl in this class."

"What gives you the right?" John resisted the great urge to smash an egg on Sherlock's bloated head, "And I was here for other reasons, thank you very much."

"I'm still right even if you're not aware of your own motives."

"How do you-?"

"-know? Easy. There are four plausible reasons why a male student would join a baking class. One, they have a passion for cooking and/or eating. Clearly, it's not yours. Two, they're failing. They need an easy A class. You're clearly intelligent, so you don't. Three, they are utterly bored. Like me. You cannot possibly be as bored as I am. That leaves us with option four: a search for dating prospects."

He heard a _pop_. Sherlock took out the mug, and scooped out the egg with a spoon.

"Care to try?"

"… No thanks I'm good."

He shrugged and gobbled up the egg in one bite. "It's quite palatable."

"How do you do what you're doing?"

"Poaching eggs in a microwave? I'm sure Google will help you find various procedures of the same method."

"No, that! I mean, _how_ do you have all these theories?"

"I simply eliminate the impossible. When shall we have our study date?"

"Could you please not call it that?"

"Stop being so picky, John. It is what it is. If you're not comfortable with your sexuality as I am, then that is clearly your problem and not mine."

"I am perfectly comfortable with my sexuality!"

"Says the bloke who was only ever invited to a date by a guy, to a _study _date no less, and by _me_ no less."

It took approximately ten seconds for the weight of the words to settle down upon John.

"My social life just died fifteen minutes ago, didn't it?"

"It's surprising you considered yourself having a social life. Even more that you believed you could find it in a baking class."

"I have friends, Sherlock!"

"I don't." He said proudly. "I don't waste time with people who waste my time. That's one of the many crucial differences between us."

Mrs. Hudson's voice interrupted them, "The bell is about to ring, class! Great first day! Make sure you clean up. I'll see you all on Wednesday. We'll be making cupcakes!"

The bell rang and the class left.

"Oh, excuse me! John, isn't it?"

He whirled around instantly at the sound of a girl's voice, "Hello. Hello! Yes?"

She smiled the brightest smile, "I just want to thank you! That was the best laugh I've ever had. Bless you and your new boyfriend!"

John's voice rang through the halls as loud as the school bell.

"For the last time, I. Am. Not. Gay!"

The whole corridor stopped dead.

Someone in the back began clapping. Soon, the whole crowd joined in. The applause would have puffed anyone up in a different situation.

"Go Watson! Way to show you're straight!"

Someone piped up, "Exactly how straight are you?"

The corridor burst into laughter.

John hid his face, which was quickly turning a bright shade of red, in his hands. They walked away from the crowd as fast as possible

Sherlock smiled, bemused, "Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"

"It only started when you showed up in my life three hours ago."

"That's not fair, John. You obviously have the tendency to do these things. You are acclimatized to putting yourself in embarrassing situations."

"Sod off. The more I hang out with you, the more people think I'm gay."

"None of us is completely homosexual. Just as none of us is completely heterosexual."

"I don't need a lesson on sexuality right now!"

"No, John. You obviously do."

He stopped in his tracks and faced him.

"Alright, Sir Boast-a-lot. What could you possibly know about it that I don't?"

Sherlock's smile sent a shiver down John's spine. It was absolutely _evil._

"I don't mind showing you in a crowded hallway. Do you?"

All his internal alert signals turning on, John stepped backwards, "No! Not here!"

Sherlock eased up, then smiled smugly, "Case and point. Don't be so alarmed, John. It's just sex."

Realization dawned upon John, "So you've… done it before?"

"Hardly a question to ask someone you've just met in the last three hours."

John caught himself, "Right. Yes. Sorry, forgive me."

"On that note, you should really stop looking at pornography. It gives you delusions about your dating prospects."

John punched him on the shoulder hard enough to hear Sherlock give an exclamation of surprise, but gentle enough not to break anything.

"I DO NOT- Ugh! I'm fed up with you! I'm going to – to see my Rifle and Pistol club mates and you better not follow me, Holmes!"

He stomped off the other direction like a burning fireball.

"John! Hold on, John! Wait up!"

He swung around, "What? What is it now?"

"You've had something on your face all this time."

Sherlock raised a hand and brushed his cheek with a thumb. Then he licked it off.

"Sugar. Must have stuck to you during class. Do try to look into a mirror more often."

It should have repulsed John and earned Sherlock another punch. But it didn't. He couldn't seem to find the right words.

Sherlock smiled with pleasure as he observed him blush. Of course John already forgot they hadn't used sugar during class.

"Off you go, John Watson. I'm sure your mates miss you."

He glared, which had no effect on Sherlock at all. He stormed away still red as a peach.

* * *

Note: What shall we have them do next? :)


	3. How to Shoot and Miss

**3. How to Shoot and Miss**

Irene Adler lowered the comics section of the newspaper and raised her elegant eyebrows at Sherlock. Anyone who didn't know him would think he was simply smiling. To her, he was as giddy as a schoolboy with a crush.

She smirked, "Well? How sexy?"

At the shooting range, John's target had a face with dark curly hair drawn in marker. The captain of the team wondered why the portrait seemed so familiar.

"Who's that, John?"

"Hello, Greg. It's nothing. Just someone I completely wish I hadn't met."

"It is something to me if you keep missing your target, soldier. You've hit everywhere else."

True that. Bullets had only made it through the white space outside of the drawing. John groaned and put down his pistol.

"Sorry, really. I'm not myself today. Just had a bad day at baking class."

"At _what_?"

It was too late to unsay it now, "Baking. Baking class."

"… pfft-!" Greg bit his lips to stop himself, but he burst out laughing. He repeatedly slammed his hand on the counter.

"Oi!"

"My- my best shooter goes to a bloody baking class! God forgive me, I'm going to hell for this! Now here's an idea – you could star in Commander Cake!"

"I have a pistol right here."

"Are you gonna shoot icing out of it? God, I am so sorry John. It's just the best thing I've heard all day. Have you been watching too much Extreme Cupcakes? Or no, wait! Did you make the fatal mistake of thinking you could hit it off with a girl in that class? Because that's a tried and true way to kill your reputation _and _your social life! Have you been living under a rock these past few years?"

"If you're cheering me up it isn't working."

"Please do cheer up, emotional child. Good afternoon, Lestrade. John."

He couldn't believe it. "Sherlock! I told you not to follow me here!"

"I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm simply here to collect the ballistics data that Lestrade promised. I trust it's done and done well?"

"All ready, right here," Greg took out a folder from his backpack, "So Sherlock's the bloke you were talking about, John? Seems like you two have hit it off."

"We have _not _hit it off!"

"But it's quite a portrait you drew of me." Sherlock nodded towards the target, "I can't believe you'd miss me so much."

"I do not miss you at all!"

"Oh? Then why haven't you at least put a bullet through my head, team champion?"

"Are we talking about the target or your actual head? Because I wouldn't mind shooting either."

"Go ahead. You'll miss me."

"Hello, boys. Forgive my intrusion. I do wonder what you mean by 'missing someone'."

Irene Adler. Doorway. Irene Adler's lean figure leaning on the door way._ The_ Irene Adler. You didn't exist until she acknowledged your existence. And here she was, saying hello.

John felt like an awkward porcupine. Greg felt like Pinocchio meeting the Blue Fairy.

"H-Hello, Irene." Greg smiled and tried to speak, "You're lovely. I mean, you're lovely to see- No, what I do mean is, it's lovely to see you."

"Er… Hi!" John already forgot about the row with Sherlock, "Where did you - How did you.. um.. I mean, that is… how do you two know each other? Wait, she's not-?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I needed a riding crop. She happened to have one. Now we're colleagues. Try not to stammer, it's difficult to understand."

"You were about to ask me out for dinner, weren't you, Sherlock?"

"Oh! It seems I have… family matters to attend to. So I'm afraid John has to proxy for me instead. " He smirked at John's incredulous look, "You're welcome."

"What did you… did you just… ask Irene to date me?" Unbelievable! He longed to throw something at Sherlock. But his pistol might go off and shoot someone else instead. "Look, I'm sorry for Sherlock. You don't have to listen to him. Do whatever you want, and I'll be fine with it."

Irene gave John the look up-down as if she were seeing him for the first time again. Then she raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

He beamed proudly.

"Did you say he hasn't had a girlfriend before? Oh, John Watson. Look at you. So sweet and so gentle." She smirked, "Shall we change that?"

He opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish on dry land.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "The woman just offered you a date, John. Don't look so flabbergasted."

Irene gently laid a finger on Sherlock's lips, "Is it a date if I simply wish to speak with my girlfriend's sibling?"

The hearts of many boys stopped. You could even hear the sound of fragile hope screeching as an enormous black hole sucked all of it into void despair.

"G-g-girlfriend's…?"

"_What_? You're- you're Harry's girl-?"

"Poor dear, I'm not _anyone's_. I'm just lesbian at the moment. And at the moment, your sister is the most interesting human being on this planet."

Irene's smirk said it all. This woman has been having sex with his sister. And she was thoroughly enjoying it.

Greg dropped the folder of papers and they flew everywhere.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock bent down to grab them, "Pick them up, now! Don't lose the page order!"

It was futile to resist reality, but you just had to try sometimes. John mentally gathered himself, "I don't believe you."

Irene whipped out her phone, pressed some buttons, and showed it to John.

"There. This was taken last night."

His eyes narrowed, then widened, "Oh dear God…! That's Harry! Those are handcuffs! Pink fuzzy handcuffs! You're… you're having sex with my…!"

"John, I think you need to sit down-" Sherlock caught him in his arms just as his knees gave way. He pulled a stool closer with one leg and deposited him onto it.

"I just… I think… I need a breather. I need to go home. Oh God. The train's not here yet. I won't make it. And oh God, you're having sex with my sister!"

Irene smiled in amusement, "You're right, Sherlock. He does have a natural inclination to destroy his own social life."

"It's just that… you're doing it with… my sister and why don't I know anything about it?"

She waved that off with a airy gesture, "Oh, that's not even the beginning! Sometimes we both bring a few more girls and boys in and-"

"Thank you, woman. That's quite enough for John's emotional capacity. Any more and he'll faint."

"That would be a spectacle."

"I won our little game. It's my rules now."

"You were quite good."

"You're not so bad. Here," Sherlock thrust the gathered papers into her arms. "You know what to do with them."

She smiled, "Before you even thought of it. Well then, John doesn't seem to be in any state fit for a chat. I think I'll just find you at your home, then? Harry has hinted she wanted to try paint this time. Goodbye, boys."

With a nod, she left the shooting range and John in a dumbfounded state. Greg wistfully watched her go. If anything good could ever happen to anyone, and well, that was it for him. Rather sad, really.

John had an overwhelming urge to overturn a table, "Who are you people and why have you suddenly barged into my life like this?"

"I was under the impression you were interested in a baking class, and you decided to talk to me."

"Hell… well, yeah! You're the only other bloke."

"But you signed in the class to meet _girls_."

"I did not-!"

"- and when you finally met one, you almost faint. No wonder your dating prospects have been less than exemplary, if you had any at all."

"It's not everyday someone comes up to you and says, oh hi, I'm fucking your sibling and I hope you don't mind, ta."

Sherlock gave it some thought, "I absolutely doubt I'll ever hear that."

"See? There. Now let me die in peace. My life is over."

He smirked as if he had just said a joke, "You? Die? Come on, John. You just openly declared your heterosexuality, had your existence confirmed by Irene Adler, and best of all, met me. Quite a good day, from where I stand."

"Good day? Life threw me a lemon and then follows up with a missile tank. Somehow they both involve you. You know what? Never mind." John stood up too quickly and grabbed his bag, "I'm going home to bed and I'm not going to wake up until next week. Greg, good luck. What am I even saying? Good afternoon. Ta."

He turned and slammed his forehead against the door. Like a cartoon character, only this was real and even funnier.

"John!"

Various images played before his vision: Dark. Light. The ceiling. Stars. Greg. Sherlock.

"Do you feel alright? Because I know your dignity isn't."

How he wanted to punch the latter. He mumbled something, but couldn't.

"Did he faint?" Greg peered over Sherlock's shoulder.

He checked John's eyesight. "Yep. I think we've done what we came here for. I'll take him home. Thanks for the report."

"What was that all about? With Adler?"

"Harry challenged her to find her sibling. Didn't take us more than a few hours, but I thought this would be the best way to break the news to John."

"Yeah, by knocking him out. Makes perfect sense."

"This was Plan B. Plan A involved cheerleaders and fireworks. I'm quite disappointed, actually."

Sherlock texted Mycroft. Then he slung John's arm over his shoulder and pulled him up.

"Need help with that?"

"No, I'm fine. We're fine. See you later, Lestrade. I suggest you find someone new to crush on."

Greg Lestrade watched as his champion shooter and the Nerd of Ice stumbled out the doorway, and the latter just gave him advice on love. What was the world coming to?

* * *

Note: Hope you enjoyed it! Thank you very much for all who reviewed! You make my day. =^^=


	4. How to Ruin a Perfectly Lovely Cake

**4. How to Destroy a Perfectly Lovely Cake**

When courting someone, it is usually a fantastic idea to introduce him or her to one's family. In fact, this has become an unwritten rule in most cultures. As all unwritten rules go, it also carries unwritten specifics details. For instance, ideally the person remains _conscious_ during the time of introduction.

This is unfortunately lost to some members of the population, especially most sociopaths and psychopaths.

John's left arm slung over Sherlock's shoulder, who supported the rest of his body by pulling on the back of his belt. The rest of his limbs hung limp. Many students, teachers, and non-teaching staff could only give the motionless body a pitying look as Sherlock dragged him across a small field.

In the lush University of Ault, there are also unwritten rules. If you see the Nerd of Ice carrying a lifeless body across the school grounds, you must instead pretend you are watching a lioness carry off a poor gazelle: there is nothing you can do about it unless you want the lioness tearing you apart.

Unfortunately, being the oblivious and helpful bloke that he is, Anderson approached Sherlock. He wore a cheerful smile for the last time, "Hey, Sherlock. Need any help?"

Sherlock shot him a look that could melt an iceberg.

"No, Anderson. I have no intention of giving you a chance to steal one of Dr. Moristan's dinosaur figures so you could masturbate to it."

He blinked, taken aback, "What? What are you talking about? No one knows about – I mean, I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Oh come on," Sherlock rolled his eyes and yelled, "_We _all_ know about Anderson's dinosaur fetish, don't we_?"

Several students murmured and nodded solemnly in agreement. Some sighed in disappointment. A teacher on the second floor peered out the window and yelled, "Who doesn't?"

Anderson looked like he might throw a fit. "How did you know?"

"You own a pet iguana, which may explain the shedding all over your clothes. Your backpack has twenty species of dinosaur key chains. Obviously if I wanted to hide a fetish, I wouldn't wear shirts that say, 'If I can't have you, I'll be a Tyrannosaurus Wreck.'" Anderson looked down at himself and his face contorted, as if he couldn't decide whether to cry or to be angry, "I suggest you try finding a life partner you could actually mate with."

"You're a psychopath, Holmes!"

As he furiously stomped away, Sherlock shouted after him, "Must be difficult having to deal with the shedding!"

Anderson gave him a rude gesture. If John were awake, he would probably have been able to make Sherlock shut up and salvage some of Anderson's dignity. It is just to his misfortune that John chose that moment to be unconscious.

Soon enough, a small black sedan with HOLMES for a plate number stopped right in front of them when they reached the main campus road.

"_Again_?" Hope, his driver, muttered as he looked at John. "Did you show him cruel and inhumane pictures of cupcakes, Sherlock?"

"He did it to himself. Walked straight towards a door. Help me bring John to Mycroft's flat and we'll give him some smelling salts to wake him up."

"Wouldn't the school nurse or the hospital be better alternatives?"

"Would they really want to see me again? I doubt they liked having to testify in court."

"A literally bloody hearing that was. Fine. Get in."

Sherlock half tossed, half heaved John inside.

"Let's make a stop at Konditor and Cook on the way. A coming home present is apt for this occasion."

The flat Mycroft and Victor Trevor shared together was only thirty minutes away from the school. With a cake box in one hand and Hope supporting John behind him, Sherlock rang the doorbell.

No answer.

He rang again. Again. Again. And again.

He was about to throw a trash bin into the window when Victor pulled open the door. A blue towel covered his midsection and a shower cap covered his dark hair.

"Good morning, Victor."

"Sherlock? I hadn't expect you here at all!"

"Obviously, or you would have put on some clothes."

They marched inside. Hope deposited John on the couch. He excused himself and left, mumbling something about the sheer indecency of kids these days.

"Mycroft is coming at any minute! What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm here to drop off a friend of mine."

"I'm in the middle of taking a bath!"

"So go ahead. We won't bother you. We'll put John on a spare mattress. He's my baking class partner. Just met him this morning."

"Just this morning and he's already unconscious because of you? Did you force feed him your experimental muffins and kidnap him?"

"He walked straight into a door. I didn't want to leave him there."

"But you should have left him with the school nurse!"

The door bell rang twice. No doubt, it was Mycroft.

"Victor, help me hide John! Mycroft can't see him when he's still unconscious!"

"You can't hide from him! No one can!"

"But I bet he'd never dare look in your closet."

"_What_?"

Sherlock grabbed John and hauled him and the box of cake into Victor's closet. Then he hopped inside and closed the door behind him. It was dark save for a few cracks of light. Soft cloth smelling of perfumed detergent brushed his face. John slumped against the back wooden wall, and Sherlock knelt because there wasn't enough space for him to stand.

"Thanks, Victor!"

"HEY! NO! Get out!"

The clicking of a key being inserted into a door lock made Victor's eyes widen. Mycroft Holmes strode into the hallway, carrying an umbrella as black as his soul.

He paused and regarded the half-naked Victor. Then his eyes scanned the area, his mind making conclusions with skill generations better than the latest military technology.

He sighed, took Victor's keys from his table, and locked the closet.

"How dare you-! Open up, Mycroft!" His brother banged on the door. He pulled a stool and crossed his legs as he sat on it.

"Your explanation should at least be slightly amusing, Sherlock." He twirled the keys in his fingers.

"I er… have a friend I'd like you to meet."

"A _friend_? I doubt that." Mycroft scoffed. "What did you do this time? Knock some poor innocent soul unconscious?"

"Yes, in fact that is quite true. Let me out."

"I believe England would much prefer having you locked in a closet, dear brother."

"I have a whole Chocolate and Raspberry Hazelnut cake from Konditor and Cook."

"Your bribes won't work on me."

"I will smash it all around this wardrobe!"

"Threats won't work either."

"That is _my _closet, you idiots!" Victor banged on the door, "Mycroft, give me my keys, now!"

"That is no concern of mine, Victor. You should have thought of that before you let them in your wardrobe."

"Mycroft, I need my clothes! Or so help me I'll-"

"Or what?"

"Or… I'll tell him!"

"I don't think you heard me. Threats won't work."

"Fine! Sherlock, hi! _I've been fucking your sibling_. I hope you don't mind!"

Silence.

Victor gasped in horror at the squelching sound of cake being smashed against the walls of the wardrobe right in front of his face. He slammed a fist against the door.

"Those are _my_ clothes!"

"That is _my_ brother!"

"It was done with consent!"

"What does it matter if you did or didn't do it with consent or if you were just rolling around the garden like a pair of hormonal teddy bears?"

"Sherlock Holmes I am not above burning you in there!"

"Threats won't work on me!"

"Then I'll push your brother against this door and-!"

"NO! No don't! I'll stop! Don't do anything with Mycroft! I only smeared the icing against the door! Your clothes are completely safe."

"Good. Now Mycroft, _open my goddamn closet!_"

Sherlock heard jangling metal and the slightest hint of Mycroft's smile when he said, "I suppose this means I am sleeping on my own bed tonight?"

Bright light filled the small closet as Victor flung the doors open. Some icing flew and smacked against his mahogany skin.

"YOU," He grabbed Sherlock's collar and pulled his face closer, "Clean this up. Now."

"And why should I when you're having sex with my sibling? Traitor!"

Mycroft had not moved an inch from his seat, "Victor is such a good liar, don't you think, Sherlock?"

He blinked, "You two never actually-?"

"Of course not!" Victor half yelled, "What in the blazes made you believe what I said?"

_An earlier incident today involving two reputable lesbians, _Sherlock thought, but it was at that moment John decided to wake up.

"Ugh…. Uh… God… where… what…?"

It smelled of icing and detergent. He was in a rather awkward crumple, having been unceremoniously stuffed inside a closet. He waved his arms to get suits and collared shirts out of his face. He stumbled out, a hand on his aching head. Victor winced when he planted muddy shoes right on his white socks.

"Who are you all? What's happening?" John blinked blearily at a half-naked man in a towel holding Sherlock by the collar, and another man sitting primly on a stool as if he were the Queen of England. "Am I having a nightmare?"

Sherlock smiled, "Victor. Mycroft. This is John Watson, my baking class partner. John, this is my brother Mycroft, and this is Victor, a family friend. I threw us in the closet hoping we wouldn't be noticed by my brother. Unfortunately, he locked us in and it took Victor's help to get us out."

"Afternoon." Mycroft nodded.

"Yeah, good afternoon, John."

"Hi. Hello. You might, uh… want to put on some pants… Victor." John said quietly, "You'd look much more threatening that way."

"You're right. You know what? I'll do exactly that. Here, hold this." He handed Sherlock's collar over to John, "And wait till I get back."

He pulled some clothes out of the closet and disappeared inside the bathroom. John looked from Sherlock in his hands, whose eyes widened, to Mycroft, who nodded.

"Right then."

His fist flew for Sherlock's face. He yelped and quickly dodged most of it, but it grazed his cheek. He fell backwards onto Victor's bed.

A pleased smile graced Mycroft's lips.

"You stay away from me! Got it? I don't want to see you or anything related to you at all!"

"John, I can explain." Sherlock raised a hand to defend his face in case John decides to punch him again.

"Better make it good, then!"

"You had walked right into the door. Remember? In the shooting range?"

"Oh. Oh God. Irene and Harry." John's expression slackened. He lowered his fist, sat onto the bed next to Sherlock, and buried his face in his hands.

"Harry?" Mycroft said quietly, "Harry Watson?"

"Yeah. My sister."

"_The_ Harry Watson? The painter?"

John didn't reply for a while, "… Oh. Yes, Harry is a famous painter, if you believe what the telly says."

Something in Mycroft changed. Now, a smile crept on Sherlock's lips. He sat up next to John.

"Yes. I've confirmed it. His sister is Harry Watson, the artist you've been crushing on."

John blinked. "You-?"

"I do not-!" Mycroft looked horrified, as if he was just told that a Chinese-American war had begun. But he caught himself and his trademark condescending sneer flashed across his expression, "Although, it is rather difficult to believe you're her brother."

John shrugged, "Believe it or not. Not my problem."

"My brother loves your sister's paintings. He's been buying them anonymously."

"You know what? Good for you. She's screwing with Sherlock's best friend now though, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

"Colleague. He could probably ask her to sign that giant forehead of yours, Mycroft."

He and John spoke at the same time, "Do shut up."

"Onto more serious matters." Mycroft uncrossed his legs and leaned forward towards them, "Tell me how you two met, John. I'd rather hear it from you than from him."

"Baking class. We were partners. He pissed me off and I went to the shooting range for training. Then he shows up and introduces Harry's current girlfriend. Somehow I knocked myself out."

"My brother does have that unfortunate effect on people."

"Now tell me, Sherlock. Why did you bring me here?"

"I simply wanted you to meet my family. It _is_ a necessary gesture for study dates."

John almost laughed, "Is that it? Or did you just kidnap me so you could hold me hostage and make Harry sign your brother's forehead?"

"Me? Do a favor for Mycroft? Of all people?"

"Then why did you bring me outside Ault when you could have just handed me over to the school nurse?"

"I don't trust any of them."

"Your argument isn't good enough!"

"I had no intention of leaving you alone unconscious anywhere."

"I had no intention of going anywhere with you!"

"I like you!"

"I don't like you!"

"Do stop acting like children." Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor, but Sherlock could almost hear him snickering inwardly. "Allow me to bring you to your home, John Watson."

"Great. Fantastic. Keep your brother away from me."

"He just wants to meet your sister."

"Oh sure. Whatever."

"John, you have no idea what you're doing."

"Anywhere without you is fine by me."

"I'm telling you now, you're making a big mistake."

"And I'm telling you, find a different baking class partner. You've gone too far."

For a split second Sherlock looked at him as if he had just given his death sentence. But he caught himself and looked away.

Thankfully, Victor came out of the bathroom, properly clothed in jeans and a green collared shirt.

"I heard a punch and Sherlock's cry of agony. Was that you?" He looked at John, who nodded.

Victor grinned, "Wonderful! Bless you, John Watson! Thank you for doing us all a favor. And welcome to the family! Feel free to drop by any time. Do you want your own keys to this flat?"

"No. No thanks. Actually could you help me go back to school? I've still got classes in the afternoon."

"Are you sure you wouldn't want to be brought home?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "You've had a rather unusual day."

"No. I'm fine. I can take more."

Mycroft gave John the look up-down as if he were seeing him for the first time again. Then he raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

He smiled weakly.

Mycroft stood up and dusted his pants, "Well then, shall we? I'd hate for you to be late under my watch."

Sherlock watched John and Mycroft leave. Only the latter looked back to give him a warning glare.

"Mummy will hear of this. Do clean up Victor's closet. It might soften her fury."

Victor put his hands on his hips, noting the bruise on Sherlock's cheek. "What was that about, Sherlock? Family introduction, you said?"

"… yes. This went so much better when I imagined it in my head."

He grinned, "And you just let him punch you? Oh! This might just change the course of Holmes history!"

Sherlock frowned, "Shut up, Victor!"

"Hey, you smeared cake all over my closet. I have the right to speak. After you clean it all up, you have the right to leave my flat. And don't return unless John is around to hold you back on a leash."

Five minutes later, Sherlock was scrubbing and soaping icing and cake out of Victor's closet door. If this were a movie, a dark cloud would be hanging over his head. He had to get John back as his Baking class partner. No one else, except for Mrs. Hudson, was worthy enough.

Yet, in evaluation of today's results, John's introduction to Sherlock's family went better than expected.

* * *

Note: I think the prompt was to lock them up in a closet together. Ta-da!

Dr. Moristan, Victor Trevor, and Hope are original characters in the Sherlock Holmes series. Also I just created the University of Ault out of convenience. It was inspired by another novel, "Prep". =)


	5. How to be Popular

**5. How to Become Popular**

Mycroft Holmes turned the ignition on and the sleek black BMW purred to life. It had that new car smell and it was almost a sin to touch its silky leather seats and immaculate dashboard. Everything about Mycroft could make anyone feel unworthy.

"Do forgive me, John. It's a year-old vehicle." He smirked.

"No, not at all. It looks quite new."

Mycroft's smooth driving showed it was already second nature to him. The vehicle pulled out into the streets, and shops and flats sped by like a panoramic scene. John held his back a little too straight in the passenger seat, finding it difficult to get comfortable.

"You made quite an impression on my brother, John Watson."

"I'm not certain I could explain what happened."

"Try me." His tone was a treacherous iceberg.

John shifted uncomfortably, "Sherlock explained the scientific process of cooking an egg. Next thing I know, he's asking me out on a study date and introducing me to girls."

Mycroft turned the car so smoothly John could hardly feel it, "His colleague, Irene Adler."

"And you know that, how?"

"A better question would be, how could I not know?" said Mycroft, smirking like a peacock who could not resist an opportunity to show-off its tail feathers.

John swallowed. By all means, Sherlock was intelligent. So if Mycroft was the older brother, he must be _immeasurably_ intelligent. By the way the conversation was flowing, that seems about right.

"So, I understand you have a sister?"

"Yeah. One. Harry."

"And Miss Adler and Miss Watson are seeing each other?"

John turned sharply.

"Well, I mean, uh… what…?"

He raised an eyebrow, "And when I say 'see', I am being indelicate. I meant they were having sex, John."

A helpless, sinking feeling down in John's gut quickly turned into a pit of despair. Was Mycroft really going to pry open his life like a frog on a dissecting board? It was a blessing when Mycroft's phone rang, to the tune of 'I'm Singing in the Rain'.

"Pardon me, John." Mycroft parked on the curb and turned the hazard lights on, lifting the phone to his ear.

John sunk low into his seat when a gaggle of three giggling girls in Ault uniform passed by their car. His reputation was bad enough as it is. He didn't need anyone seeing him out of campus during class hours and get accused of skipping school.

Just a minute. What were they doing there?

Mycroft held the phone away from him, as if it just sprouted wings. "Ault just dismissed its students early due to a serious iguana infestation."

John could have asked why or how iguanas could possibly infest a school. He could have asked how serious the infestation was. He should have called his friends and asked what Anderson did this time.

"I insist on bringing you home. It's no small matter walking from here to Benedict Lane."

"Alright. Thanks." He breathed a sigh of relief, sitting up in the BMW, now not caring whether anyone saw him. Mycroft knew where he lived, but John was already past feeling stalked by a Holmes.

Mycroft smiled. The botched Iguana project at Baskerville turned out to be useful after all.

"This may turn out for the best, John."

Yet for all their intellectual prowess, Holmeses are not always right.

Mycroft had frozen by the doorway of John's home with his finger still at the doorbell, wide-eyed like a poor sailor who had looked upon Medusa and turned into a statue for all eternity.

John was talking to God_, if You're there, and if You exist, please kill me. Oh please, oh please. Kill me now._

It was Harry.

She had nothing on but a scarlet towel around her midsection, one hand laissez-faire on her slender hip and another on the door frame as if she were pole dancing right in front of their house.

"John, for sure I thought you'd bring home a girl!" She pinched John's cheek. "But I never knew you were into the… Secret Service types."

She glanced at Mycroft with a smirk, who stepped slightly back away against the stair handle as if she were a hungry lioness. He turned his head quickly, suddenly interested in a potted begonia on their windowsill, his cheeks glowing like an iridescent tomato on a full moon.

"Harry! Stop this!" John picked up the faint scent of alcohol on her breath, "Any moment now a mob is going to take pictures of you. Have you been drinking again?"

Finally, the Holmes coughed and held out his hand to shake hers.

"Pardon me. Mycroft Holmes. A pleasure, but I'm afraid I can't stay for tea."

She shook her head, her blond curls that she treats at the salon every week bounce on her shoulders like rope that John so desperately wanted to strangle her with.

"That's quite alright. I'm sorry I can't invite you in. Irene's a little tied up at the moment anyway."

"Irene?" John's voice took on a higher pitch.

"Well of course, John. We were having sex on your bed before you came." Harry gestured animatedly as if they were talking about the weather while John's mind gave a silent dying scream. "She wanted to be tied up this time and I wanted to experiment with the handcuffs. Was just about to try a new dil-"

"Alright, that's quite enough of that." John lowered his head and pushed Harry inside their house with both hands, his face burning. "In you go and don't ever show your face to humans again!"

"Hold on, wait!" Harry held John's crown an arm's length away without much effort. It was obvious she lifted weights, "You haven't given me the details about you and Mister Mycroft!"

"I'm simply a friend of your brother's, Miss Watson. Nothing more."

"So you're not with John?"

"I'm afraid not."

"You have a sister or a brother then?"

John pushed her in and slammed the door behind her before she could catch his reply. A high-pitched, over-excited squeal of joy erupted from within.

"Oh God. I thought I was going to die."

Mycroft lowered his head and his coughs were so severe he must have developed the flu in the past two minutes.

"John, in light of recent events, there were no recent events. I brought you to your doorstep and drove away, as I shall do now. Are we clear?"

"Crystal." Perhaps there was humanity in the Holmes after all.

.

It is a week later. John's arm leaned on the counter of the library's check-out desk, flashing his James Bond smile. At least, that's what he thought it was.

"Hi there. I'm John."

The girl smiled shyly, hugging her Comparative Anatomy tomes close and tucking a strand of light brown hair behind her ear. She had dropped her books and he had been kind enough to help her pick them up.

"Hi, I'm Molly. Nice to meet you."

He was also the first boy to talk to her directly ever since she enrolled in Ault. She wished she had a shade of lipstick on instead of her usual chapstick.

"Listen, uh, could you help me, Molly?"

She tilted her head at him in concern, which made her look cute, "What's the matter?"

"I seem to have lost my number. May I have yours?"

"Of course you may, I mean… _oh_." It dawned on her and she giggled.

At that moment, a familiar slender figure sashayed behind her and caught John's eye.

Irene, hands on hips, swaying as if on a catwalk. Irene, elegant in a peacock blue Yves Saint-Laurent skirt, a ruffled cream blouse, high-heeled suede shoes. Irene, lips blood-red, piercing blue irises, dark wavy hair in a perfect bun.

She winked at him. _Hello, Harry's brother. You should have joined us last night. It was exhilarating._

His mouth fell open in horror until she disappeared into the Library. Unfortunately, Molly turned and saw her too, and she interpreted things differently.

"Oh, um… I'm sorry, John." She bowed her head, looked away, clutching her bag closer to her. "I better go."

That jerked John's attention.

"But wait, why-?" She had already hurried away, "Oh, alright. Yeah, well, see you I suppose."

In a corner of the library, Sherlock and Irene watched Molly rush away as if she couldn't get away fast enough. He glanced at Irene with a smug smile, who raised an eyebrow and a corner of her mouth, and that is how they exchange victorious high-fives.

"Is it in place?" Irene glanced at Sherlock's neck. A small remote twirled between her long, white fingers.

"Yes. Don't press it too hard."

Through the slightly tinted Library window, they saw John pick up his bag and point his feet for his next class, which they both knew was Molecular Biology on the third floor with Sir Lewis.

"Now. My turn."

Sherlock took a deep breath, held one hand behind his back, and pushed the door as if he were king of the world.

"John!" He didn't care that his yell made heads turn, "I have something for you."

John puckered his lips, eyes flashing at the red bouquet Sherlock produced from behind his back. His torso tensed and his hands hung stiffly at his sides. He should have walked away as fast as possible the moment he heard Sherlock on the other end of the campus yard.

"What are these?"

"Simple, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. He could also have said 'simple John', "It's a bouquet of roses."

People around them slowed down, not bothering to hide their smiles and smirks. Why? Why does he have to be subject to this? As if his life was a popular reality show you could watch with just a glance out of your classroom window, 'The Ghastly Ordeal of John Watson.'

"I _know_ it's a bouquet of roses." The small crowd grew steadily as the new episode began, "But why are you offering them to me?"

"So you would accept them."

"I'm telling you I'm not accepting them. Good-bye, Holmes."

That drew a long 'Aww!' from the crowd, with side-comments of 'John, accept them!', 'Go Sherlock!' and one 'I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES!'. Because he was blessed with long legs and his subject of affection is Hobbit-sized, Sherlock caught up with John in two strides.

"John, listen. I must be honest with you." Holmes insisted, placing a hand on his shoulder to face him. Though John turned, his lips were still pursed, glaring at a far-away tree to his right, pretending it was Sherlock, trying to make it burst into flames.

"I know I may have ruined your reputation in the school, what little of- ow." His hand flew to his ear as if an ant bit it. "What I meant to say is, I have only acted in the best way I thought possible, even though people- ow." Again his face twitched. "I understand my actions may not have been in your best interest, although I'm certain they- ow." He glared at someone watching them from the library, holding a remote in her hand. "And all because I am deeply, irrevocably, madly…"

And the course of history collided with a black hole, tripped at the finish line, and fell flat on its face.

.

Students began naming it the 'John Watson's Epic Uppercut' incident fifteen minutes after its occurrence.

Despite various victories like the one at the library with rather shy Molly, Irene could tell Sherlock was losing hope. He had stomped out of the school clinic like an angry wife after waking up from his faint and people in his path parted like Moses and the Red Sea, the school nurse still running after him with an ice pack.

"Is he alright? I mean, with the John Watson incident in your school and all." The reading café waiter ventured, peering at his two regular customers. The tips of Sherlock's fingers touched when he was utterly lost in thought. "My wife's a teacher there. She told me about it."

"He is fine." Irene replied with a wavy gesture, her long legs crossed and a number of men had a hard time not looking at her, "Just a little heartbroken."

"I don't have a heart." Sherlock snarled.

"Because it was stolen." She finished for him.

He banged his fist on the table, grabbed the bottle of sparkling grape juice, and finished it in one go.

Irene knew she should empathize with him. Yet she was a woman of price, and watching a Holmes offer a bouquet of roses to a boy in the middle of the schoolyard had been utterly priceless.

She sighed, "You don't actually believe carbonated beverages will help you forget your sorrows?"

"You heard what he said, Irene." He winced when he touched his swollen black and blue jaw.

"We all did, and many are still hearing it." Irene rubbed her temples to hide half of her smirk. It would take approximately three years and two months for the spreading rumors to die. "But you are acting like a child whose brother broke his Action Man."

"He did. So I threw his umbrella down a chimney."

"Do grow up."

"Given my natural talents I see no reason why John would refuse my endeavors." He straightened his back, rolling his shoulders, like a raggedy doll trying to piece itself together. "You and John's sister laid eyes on each other one afternoon and got laid that evening."

"Harry and I are in it for fun. John is not 'fun'. He wouldn't waste time on passing flings. Not to mention you have the emotional intelligence of a teacup."

"And how are petty feelings relevant in this situation?"

"Case and point." Irene puckered her lips. It was like teaching poetry to fish. "So, give up. Let the matter go, Sherlock. This will never be your playing field."

Now Sherlock raised his head, his arm cradling the bottle of soda, and a myriad of expressions passed his face. He said nothing for so long that Irene knew he was considering the option. It felt as if she had just given the order to hang an innocent man. What had she done? Slowly he took out his phone. It wasn't to call John, because he had blocked Sherlock's number. It wasn't to call mum, he would never. So who else? She watched his fingers, mesmerized, as he tapped a few keys. Then he raised it to his ear.

"Brother dear," Oh Irene, you may gone too far. Wicked girl. "I'd like to transfer schools."

* * *

Note: Thank you for your patience. =)


End file.
